Lost & Found
by foreverlasting24
Summary: Six years after high school, Kat & Patrick bump into each other in New York City. Future Fic.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi readers, it's Jay. Here's a future fic for you. It takes a while to get going, but hopefully you'll stick around. Please, don't hesitate to share your thoughts with some reviews. xoxo!_

* * *

Patrick Verona never thought he'd see the name Kat Stratford again after stalking out of high school with his barely earned diploma. But here it is, in crisp, bold letters of the New York Times, staring back at him with a haunting, I-dare-you edge, not unlike the girl who owns it. Patrick's smile hardly surpasses lugubriousness as he begins to read her editorial titled "The Evolving Truth About Climate Change" under her very own opinion column. He could almost picture a seventeen year old Kat lecturing him right now, although, he yet again realizes, vivid imaginations are never like the real thing.

"Kat Stratford, huh?" At the sound of his best friend's voice, Patrick crumples up the newspaper hastily and glances sheepishly at Keith. "Haven't heard that name in a while."

Patrick tries to shake off the topic nonchalantly, but his throat is too dry and his mouth isn't working properly, so the words come out in a sort of obvious discomfort. "Oh, I was just skimming an editorial…"

Keith, goddamn him, snatches the newspaper out of Patrick's hands and scans through the pages. "Dude," Keith says, shaking his head. "You can't go down this road again."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about. Pat, you were hung up on this chick for _months_. I had to practically haul you out of bed every morning the year after Padua ended."

"That's slightly overdramatic, don't you think? It's just a newspaper article."

"It's _her_ newspaper article. And I bet you've read it at least three times."

Patrick gets out of his seat, heads toward the fridge in his and Keith's apartment, and pops open a Budweiser. He needed distraction, fast. That's how he got through it the first time, after all. When Kat broke their relationship off the summer before going to Brown, he was angry. He couldn't believe it; he refused to believe it.

"I can't do a long distance relationship, Patrick," she'd yelled at him, five summers ago. They were outside at the Stratford's front lawn, summer air suddenly surrounding them like volcano smoke.

"Why?" Patrick shot back, clutching his hands together. He remembered how cold his skin was, even though his blood felt like it was boiling underneath. "Because you can't afford to be held down by me? Because I don't fit into this lifestyle you're about to build?"

Kat shook her head vehemently. "That's not it, Patrick. It's just… it's not going to work, okay? You can't possibly tell me that we can have what we both want when we're a thousand miles apart from each other. And I can't give up Brown, Patrick. I _can't_. I've been working my whole life for this."

"I'm not asking you to give anything up," Patrick had said. "You're the one doing that."

Kat turned silent, fast.

"Look, isn't what we have… isn't it worth trying? You can't give up just because you're scared—"

"I'm not scared," Kat snapped, before the words even left his mouth. Her voice cracks, shredding through the atmosphere, but she quickly recovered herself. The next few words Kat spoke were broken and staggered. "Look. I've made my decision. I'm sorry. Goodbye, Patrick."

The rest is hazy to Patrick. Maybe there were more words exchanged. Maybe it didn't happen as quickly and as chaotically as he remembers. Kat's back was suddenly turned away from him, and she was already heading inside, but Patrick's feet stayed rooted to the grass.

He remembers being unable to walk away, and he remembers that maybe that meant something.

"Wait," Patrick pleaded. "Kat, I love you."

Patrick had murmured these words a million times in his head. He had etched them on the corner of his history notes, bored in class. He had even whispered it a few times to Kat when she lied asleep in his arms.

It was the first time he had said it to her face, but it was the absolute wrong time.

Kat paused at the front door of her house, and for a moment, Patrick was almost positive that she'd turn around, that this was just another fight ready to blow over. But long, aching seconds passed, and with an apologetic, teary glance, Kat shut the door on him.

The next morning, she left for Brown.

The next morning, she left _him_.

Everything else after that felt accidental, like they weren't supposed to happen—like he didn't want them to happen—but they did. That November, Patrick moved out of the house (partly because he couldn't stand his stepfather) and bought an apartment in L.A. with the money he scraped up from working at various vehicle repair garages. There, he found a decent job working at a local auto shop as a motorcycle mechanic for a good year and a half. Then he and Keith—who had surprisingly remained a loyal friend since high school—moved to New York City for a fresh start.

In New York, everything threaded together for Patrick. He became a part-time student at the Manhattan Community College, where he earned a teaching degree in mechanical engineering. He landed a job teaching auto shop and basic engineering courses at Tribeca High School. For the next few years, Patrick lived comfortably. He was content enough, satisfied even. But every now and then, usually in the middle of the night when everything was quiet and all that surrounded him were his own thoughts, a familiar feeling would creep up on him. And no matter how hard he tried, Patrick couldn't shake it.

Now, though, as Keith eyes him, Patrick rolls his eyes wearily. "Will you stop worrying?" Patrick says. "She's just a girl. I've moved on."

This feels like a lie, especially to Patrick. Sure, he'd been with a multiple girls since Kat, and he liked many of them. But something always stood in the way for Patrick when it was time to take the relationship further. Susie's smile wasn't warm like the way _she_ looked at him. And Jennifer wasn't passionate about global warming and feminism and civil liberties, not like the way _she_ was. And when Lauren pressed her lips to his, when Ashley ran her hands down his chest, when Belle pushed herself into of him, it didn't complete him the way _she_ did.

"Whatever, dude," Keith says, disturbing Patrick out of his thoughts. "Just… be careful, all right? I don't want… I don't want you to get hurt again, man."

Patrick touches the newspaper in front of him, thumbs his finger over her name. "I'm fine," he murmurs, but he knows he has gone to the deep end, treading in unruly waves. "I'm just fine."


	2. Chapter 2

Kat Stratford lifts the final box from the U-Haul truck outside and sets it down on the floor of her new, Lower East Penthouse apartment. The two men who drove her furniture across the country offered to unload the boxes for her, but she stuck by her principles and insisted that she'd help.

"Thanks boys," she says, wiping her forehead with her sleeve and taking in all the boxes that surrounded her new home. Kat tips the drivers, and begins unpacking. In less than two hours, her apartment is nearly furnished (although not decorated), and she stands at the corner of her living room to inspect the space around her. It's smaller than she'd wanted, but she had expected that. Otherwise, the kitchen is spacious, with top-notch stainless steel appliances and the beautiful granite tops she'd always wanted. The living room is homey too, but Kat thought the only reason for that was because her father, somberly cradling the news that his eldest daughter decided to move across the country, convinced her to take the old ragged sofa in his living room.

At the thought of her dad, Kat plucks her phone out from her duffel bag and decides it is probably best for her to give him a call before he does something rash or flies all the way over here to make sure she is all right.

Walter picks it up on the first ring. "Where have you been? I know for a fact that it doesn't take twenty-four hours to fly across half the states of this stupid, dangerous country—"

"I'm fine, Dad," Kat says, rolling her eyes. "I was just helping the guys unload."

"Kat, don't tell me you moved all that furniture around…"

"What, a girl can't do it?"

"Of course she can," Walter scoffs, "but she'll sure as hell come out of the task with a sore back."

Kat touches the aches on her lower back thoughtfully.

"I just wanted to know you're safe."

"I am," Kat assures her dad. "Besides, I'm twenty-five years old. I can take care of myself. You know that."

Dr. Stratford laughs nervously. "Of course I know that," he says softly. "You've been able to take care of yourself since you were sixteen years old, of course I know that. It's just…" There is a small pause. "I miss you, Kat."

Suddenly, tears start to sting Kat's eyes. Within the last five years, Walter has gotten a lot better with letting his daughters go. He let Kat fly off to Providence for college without a fight. And after Brown, when Kat landed the opportunity to volunteer for impoverished neighborhoods around the world, Walter had begrudgingly agreed to let her go to places without technological communications for nearly two years. Walter had even learned to let Bianca, his little flower, be free. She stayed in Cali for college, naturally, but after a few years, Bianca got to see the world too, as one of the top designers for Coco Chanel.

Of course, though, Kat thought her father's growing lenience was largely because after the girls ran off to college, he'd decided to get married again to none other than Darlene Tharp, who'd made him happier than he—or anyone, really—thought possible.

"I miss you too, Dad," Kat says throatily. "And I'm fine, don't worry."

"All right." There is some shuffling on the other end, and for a moment, Kat thinks they have lost connection. But then her father's clear voice creeps through again. "Hey, Kat, you want to speak to Bianca?"

"Bianca's there?"

"Yes—"

Before Walter can finish his sentence, Bianca's voice transudes through the receiver, loud and bubbly. "Oh my god, Kat! How are you? When did you get into the city? Did you get lost? Oh my god, did you get a look at Fashion District? Soho? Isn't it as unbelievable as I told you—?"

"B, I just got in two hours ago," Kat says, laughing at her sister. "I'll update you when I catch my breath. And what are you doing back in Cali anyway?"

"Cameron and I decided to check out some of the venues at home," Bianca explains. "We weren't feeling the ones in Santa Monica."

"They're wedding venues, Bianca. How different are they?"

"Pipe down, Kat. Just because you don't plan on getting married in your lifetime doesn't mean you have to put a frowny face on." Bianca stops talking, her breath steady against the phone. "You're still going to be my made of honor, though, right?"

"Yes," Kat says sarcastically, "but you still have to drag me out of New York to make me actually go to the wedding…"

"But Kaaaaaat—"

Bianca went to college at Santa Clara University with her high school sweetheart, Cameron James, and now, at twenty-three, she wanted to get married. Her father had his expected fit of rage, claiming that Bianca was far too young to make this choice, but in the end, Bianca's fairytale came true. And now, she wanted to drag Kat on a big white horse along with her.

"I said I'd think about it," Kat mutters under her breath. Hastily, she hangs up the phone with her sister, settles onto her sofa with a glass of wine, and takes a deep breath. She can't bear to think like this again—it takes her back to the worst days of her college years—but loneliness seems to stroke the back of her mind in ways she cannot afford to feel.

But she can't help it.

Her father is happy at home, with a wife he adores. Her sister is getting married in less than a month to the love of her life, and somehow, even though she hates herself for it, Kat feels jealous every time the topic arises. Her past lovers have probably all moved on, including _him_—

Kat shakes her head idly and runs a finger across the cool of her wine glass. After a few minutes, she sets her drink on the coffee table and slips on a jacket and her favorite heels.

_Fuck it_, she thinks, and she is sure that she will regret this. _I'm going out tonight._


	3. Chapter 3

"See? Didn't I tell you this would be a brilliant idea?" Keith says, as soon as they enter a crowded, sweaty, and vomit-ozone bar a few blocks away. "What more do you need to get you back on your feet than a night off with smoking hot women and downing of sweet drinks?"

Patrick doesn't say anything. He and Keith go nearly every weekend to bars around the city (it doesn't help that there's a bar on every damn block downtown), and lately, Patrick had taken home so many girls that it reminded him on his carefree high school days. It didn't do his ego or pride any justice, but it did make for a good night out.

"Here you go." Keith hands Patrick a shot glass filled with god-knows-what. "Drink up, buddy."

Slowly, though not exactly hesitantly, Patrick takes the glass from his best friend and glances around the bar. It is some old shack on the corner of 8th Street, sketchy as hell. But inside, it is totally different than he imagined. Tons of attractive women are scattered on the small club area out back. Men are dressed in fancy after-work clothes, flirting by the lounges. Plus, there is a wide variety of bottles. Patrick decides that he can manage being here for a while.

Patrick downs the shot into his mouth, the bitterness stinging his throat. He recovers from the acid quickly, and in no time, he has ingested five shots and is now making short, sweet small talk with a sexy, mindless twenty-three year old chick whose name might be Susana, Savannah, or Samantha.

"I work at the hospital on 23rd and Madison," she tells him. Patrick is only half-listening. "I'm a nurse. What do you do, Patrick?"

"I'm a teacher," he answers, unconversational.

"Oh my gosh, that's so cool!" the girl gushes giddily. "So like, do your students go gaga over you all day in class? I _soooo_ would…"

"Oh yeah," Patrick says, hoping his sarcasm didn't leak through his attempted politeness.

At this point, Susana or Savannah or Samantha leans forward and whispers seductively, "So what do you say we get out of here?"

Patrick has gotten to this point many times. He has gone out on a Friday night like this, he has made conversation with girls he knew he would never grow attached to, and he has reached a certain time within the night when he is too drunk to say no to a hot chick wanting sex. And even though it made him sick to the stomach to wake up and find that the girl sleeping next to him isn't the girl he wanted, even though partying every weekend made him restless and guilty and weak, even though he could be doing something better and more serious with the time he spent trying to get over her all these years, it is easier. All of it is easier. Feeding yourself to apathy and carelessness hurt much less than all the alternatives.

Sighing, Patrick opens his mouth to respond to the no-name girl across from him, but something at the bar area catches his eye. Someone, to be more exact. She has just swallowed a shot of whiskey— more dramatically than anyone else he's ever seen; throwing her head back and letting the glass slam against the table. Her hand is long and wavy, descending down her back, and her heels clank against the bar stool. Those hands resting upon the table, those legs twizzlering around each other, that body moving slightly the beat surrounding her—he would have recognized her anywhere.

Patrick blinks once. Twice. _It can't be. _

"Patrick?" He glances at Susana/Savannah/Samantha, forgetting where he is. Forgetting everything. "Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry, excuse me," he says monotonously.

But when Patrick gets up and glances back at the bar, she is nowhere in sight, gone, disappeared the way she had six years ago. And then, like a miracle, Patrick spots her weaving through the crowd. He sees her face this time, bright and illuminating in the dark smokiness of the atmosphere. Without a second thought, Patrick finds himself tearing through the sheet of grooving bodies and chasing after her, even though, he reminds himself, that he'd never been brave enough to do that.

He is almost close enough to touch her when someone behind Patrick steps on his foot and trips him over. Patrick catches himself quickly, and turns around to grit menacingly, "_Watch where you're going, punk._"

"Whoa." Keith staggers back and puts his hand on Patrick's arm. "Dude, are you okay?"

Patrick shakes Keith off and spins around. His heart speeds up with panic, with utter regret and disappointment, when he cannot find her in cluster of people.

"Great," he yells angrily, throwing his hands up. "I lost her."

"Lost who? Man, I saw you talking to some hot chick… you going to bring her back tonight?"

"No," Patrick says, facing Keith with dark eyes. "I _lost_ her. I lost my chance."

"What are you talking about?"

"I saw _her_, man. I saw _Kat_."

Patrick touches his lips; the sound of her name feels strange on his tongue, like it had been harbored and kept away for far too long.

Keith shakes his head. "Not this again. Patrick, look, just take this shot and go back to the lounges. You just need to—"

"No." Patrick steps away, banging into a group of people behind him. "I just… I think I need some fresh air."

He manages to set himself free from the mob and finally finds his way outside to the fresh, autumn air. His head feels clearer, and he thinks that maybe Keith is right. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe reading through her editorial somehow brought back memories of her that he wants to badly to keep out. Maybe all the craziness tonight is just a skewering reminder to move on, to scale forward like he had been doing.

Patrick is just about convinced to march back into the bar and find another girl, a better girl. When he pushes himself against the cold brick wall to enter through the doors again, when he decides that nothing can or will stop him tonight, when he finally lets himself believe that he is done and over _her_, he turns around hastily and collides right into Kat Stratford.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: First, I just wanted to extend a great big THANK YOU to all followers & reviewers. Truly, it makes me want to keep writing when I get an email saying I've got some readers!_

_Here are a couple chapter updates. I generally like to update a few chapters at a time because I'm the type of writer who likes to change things if I see the story going somewhere else. These next few parts were a blast to write. Let me know your thoughts._

* * *

Kat is wasted. Absolutely and irreversibly hammered. Smashed beyond belief.

Within the last three hours she has been at this cursory bar and lounge, she has flirted with the bartender until she got three free drinks, danced bunglingly by herself in the middle of the dance floor, and hooked up with two men who were both much too old for her and already on dates.

Now, though, she is ready to go home and sleep off the utter foolishness she made of herself tonight.

When she steps into the crisp outside air, she shivers involuntarily. She bites her lip to try to calm down the sudden chills running down her spine and her madly shaking hands.

_Goddamn_, she wills herself. _Don't cry, Kat. Don't you fucking dare._

Wiping her eyes, she makes a quick left around the building, but finds herself ramming right into a hard statue of limbs. A loud _oof_ escapes her mouth as she tumbles backwards onto the concrete.

"What the hell—?" Pissed off, Kat pushes herself off the ground and brushes off the tiny, splintering pebbles on her elbows. But before she can blow steam on the stranger that knocked her over, her eyes lift to meet his, and she gasps inwardly, as she realizes that he isn't a stranger at all. Not really.

"Patrick," she says breathlessly.

He stares at her, believing that all at once, his eyes and his mind and his heart are all conspiring against him. "Hey."

That's all. Just one word. He murmurs just one word as his dark eyes pierce through her heart, filling it in ways she forgot existed.

Then, she gives him the slightest hint of a smile. "Hey back."

* * *

"Are you okay?" Patrick asks, as Kat examines the bloody scrape on her arm. He tries to say this nonchalantly, like he didn't really care about the answer (like he didn't want to care about the answer), but even he could hear the concern poking through his voice.

"I'm fine," Kat says, dropping her arm and looking up at Patrick. She still looks alarmed, Patrick notes, but he doesn't blame her. His heart is beating a like a hummingbird's too.

"What were you—?" Patrick breaks off, clears his throat awkwardly. "What brings you here? At, um, three in the morning?"

Patrick thinks this comment passes as humor, but Kat doesn't crack a smile.

Instead, Kat bites her lip, rocks back and forth with her heels. _Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack._ "I made a mistake," she says softly. She doesn't realize how much she is playing with words. She is too drunk to realize anything. "I mean, I shouldn't have come here at all. I'm totally trashed."

Patrick nods stiffly.

"I should probably go home." Kat runs her fingers through her hair and avoids glancing at his eyes. She knows that if she looks up, she won't want to turn away. "It was nice seeing you."

He nods again, this time in agreement.

"I'm sorry I ran into you."

_I'm not_, he thinks, even though he knows she does not mean it this way.

If they were any other ex-couple running into each other in the middle of the night, this would be the end of their inept and unexpected reconciliation. But they aren't any other ex-couple. They were different; they were unfinished.

Which is why, when Patrick sees Kat turn away from him for the second time in his life, he reaches out and touches her arm lightly.

"Hey," he says, startling her. She looks at him with raised, curious brows. "Do you want to go somewhere?"


	5. Chapter 5

Kat and Patrick don't go back inside the bar. They don't go their separate ways back home, either.

Instead, they find the nearest twenty-four hour coffee shop—the one Patrick insisted was decent— and go in, a mutual decision.

"Do you come here often?" Kat says, slipping off her jacket.

"Sometimes," Patrick answers, shrugging. He slaps open a sticky menu, flips the pages, because he needs to do something with his hands. "My apartment is down the block, so it's really easy to grab a late bite."

"Wow," she says politely, "I had no idea you moved out here."

_How would you?_ He thinks, but knows better than to say it aloud. "Um, yeah," he says instead, "It's cool here. Much different than L.A. What brings you to New York?"

"Oh," she says, blushing. Patrick damns himself for wanting to reach out and touch the pink on her cheeks. "I'm writing for the Times. I have a new opinion column on there. Of course, the job didn't require me to move out here, but I thought it'd be something different."

"Oh cool."

"I've only been here for a few hours," she admits hesitantly, "and all I've done is gotten wasted."

Patrick laughs. "Always a good start."

"Naturally."

There is an awkward pause, and then they recite their orders to their apathetic waitress.

Kat twirls her coffee mug in her hands. "So what brought you to New York?"

"I ended up going to school here," Patrick explains. "Then I got a job teaching a few engineering courses at, um, Tribeca High School."

"Patrick," Kat says, her tone so suddenly emphatic that it startles him. "That's amazing! Wow."

"You sound surprised," he comments, amused.

"Nonono!" she insists, afraid she might have offended him. "I'm not surprised at all, actually."

"Is that so?"

Kat nods enthusiastically. "Yes. That's so great, Patrick."

"Well, thanks."

"You're welcome."

Patrick takes a huge gulp of his coffee, and it burns the back of his throat. "So, how are your folks?"

"They're well," Kat says, "My dad's still crazy as ever, but he's happy with Darlene around. And Bianca's getting married."

"Wow," Patrick says, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "B's getting married?"

When Kat and Patrick were getting serious in high school, Patrick became a common visitor at the Stratford household. Though Walter barely tolerated him casually strolling in after school every day, Patrick became an older brother for Bianca.

"Yeah," Kat continues, "To Cameron— you remember Cameron James, right?"

"_Spoink?_" Patrick releases a hearty laugh. "Of course I remember. Good for them. Congrats."

"Thanks. How's your family?"

"I'm not actually sure," Patrick says uneasily. "I talk to my mom sometimes, but she's preoccupied with my stepfather, so I haven't really been updated."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"Oh, I'm so—I mean, okay."

There is another short, awkward silence between them.

Kat clears her throat. If Patrick is still the same Patrick, he won't be asking all the questions. "So when did you move—"

"So what part of the city are you—"

"—to Manhattan?"

"—living in right now?"

They both stop speaking abruptly as they notice they are tumbling carelessly over each other's words.

"Sorry," Patrick says softly.

"Don't apologize," Kat responds, giving him a warm smile, "You first."

"Oh, I just asked… um, what part of the city are you living in?"

"Lower East Side. I'm on 8th Street."

"I live close by," Patrick chimes, "I can give you a lift home if you want."

Kat eyes him suspiciously. "What? Is this, um, _event_, ending already?"

"No," Patrick says quickly. "Of course not. I'm just saying, you know, for later."

"Right." She nods curtly. "Later. Thanks."

"No problem."

There is another short pause before the same waitress returns with two dishes: a simple turkey sandwich… and a giant plate of mini-burger sliders and fries. Patrick looks amused as Kat starts digging into her meal.

"I'm starving," she tells him, noticing his stare as she grabs one of the sliders. "I haven't eaten since this morning."

"I'm not stopping you," he says, chuckling slightly.

"Good."

From the corner of his eyes, Patrick observes Kat as she takes a bite into the burger. She looks like seventeen-year-old Kat, but more mature. Her face is older, wiser—sadder, even. But even given that, her eyes are still the same chocolate brown, and her hair still flows to the middle of her back, and her skin looks just as smooth and just as soft as when he used to touch her—

"What are you staring at?"

Patrick jumps, averting his eyes back to her face. "Oh, sorry."

She didn't tell him not to apologize this time. He won't fork up to it, she knows; he won't admit he's doing something he shouldn't, but hell, she's the same way. Neither of them wants to step out of little quips and small talk they're engaging in tonight. Neither of them can bear to even think about what might happen if they start reaching outward and pulling out things they inwardly swore they would never think about again. Neither of them will admit they were wrong, or even think about the uncharted territories beyond that revelation.

So it completely shocks Kat—and maybe even Patrick himself— when Patrick leans over the table and asks seriously, "What are we doing?"

Kat blinks. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Patrick finds himself clarifying, "what are we doing here? Tonight. Me and you. Why are we acting like old chummy friends getting together when clearly we both have something more to say?"

This time, the bumbling silence that rests between them is almost nauseating to Kat. She glares at him and clutches her stomach, suddenly feeling sick. "Patrick," she says, her voice low. Her stomach churns. "Stop."

"I won't," he says gently. He reaches out and covers her hand with his. "Not this time."

But before Kat can respond to this, before she can say anything at all, her belly makes a loud noise, and her hands are sweaty, and her mouth starts to water—she can feel her body ready to hurl. Hastily, she pushes herself out of her seat and bends her head above the nearest trash can.

He is by her side in an instant, a flash of golden light in a storm. She doesn't have to ask this time, and he doesn't know if she wants him to, but Patrick carefully places his fingers on the small of her back, holds her hair with his free hand, and waits patiently for her to feel better again.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Next chapter will be a big one. I can't wait to write it. Reviews are much appreciated! Thanks again to all of you who are reading.  
_

* * *

When the color finally returns to Kat's face, she covers her mouth with her hands, completely horrified. "Oh my god," she says, her voice hoarse. "This is so humiliating. I'm so sorry, Patrick."

"Don't be," he says, trying to contain his laughter at the very idea that Kat Stratford is embarrassed about something she did. After Kat essentially vomited out the mini-cheeseburgers she shamelessly devoured—and Patrick, with the help of the gothic, impassive waitress who served them, got her stomach to calm down with some ginger ale—Patrick convinced her that she needed fresh air. And more so, to just _relax_.

"I feel gross," Kat announces, tilting her head back and resting it against the brick wall of the building. The sky behind her is slightly orange, small traces of the morning sun sneaking behind to steal the night. It glints on Kat just right, lighting her hair in golden streaks, and Patrick gets the feeling he doesn't need photographic memory to remember this picture.

"That's because you've puked out three bags of food," he says.

"It's your fault. You dragged me here."

"I did not. And even if I did, I didn't tell you to swallow three burgers."

She groans. "Shut up, you."

Patrick enjoys teasing her. He likes this back-and-forth banter and always has. He misses it. "Here," he says softly, striding towards her. She takes the cold bottle of water he offers her.

"Déjà vu," she comments, taking a sip. They both smile at the thought of their failed first date, all those years ago.

"Only without the tofu," he points out, placing a hand on the small of her back. "Just alcohol."

The way he is grinning at her makes Kat's heart somersault, as she forgets, for just a moment, what she's doing and where she's going.

_Stop_, she'd said, but she isn't sure what she was referring to.

_I won't. Not this time. _

She cannot let herself think about what he means by those words; even more, she cannot let herself be hopeful about the answer.

"I should probably get home," Kat says, her voice strained of its usual strength.

Patrick looks at her, but her face is kept unreadable. "Sure," he says softly. "My apartment is right there. I can give you a ride."

Kat shakes her head and opens her mouth to argue, but thinks better of it. It's nearly 4AM, and even without hearing her father's warning, she knows it's reckless for anyone to roam around in a big, unfamiliar city at this time.

When they arrive at his apartment, which is an old three-story building above a pizza shop, Kat watches as Patrick digs the car keys out of his pocket.

"This old thing belongs to my roommate," he explains to her. "I tried to tell him that he doesn't need a car, but unfortunately, this one has gone practically unused. I'm not even sure it has gas…"

He opens the door of the indigo Jeep that is parallel parked on the curb, but before he can start the engine, Kat calls out to him. "Wait!"

Patrick looks up with curious eyes. "What?"

_What, Kat?_ She realizes she has nothing to say.

No, that's not it. She realizes she has everything to say, but no idea where to start.

"Um," she begins, swallowing, "you can't drive under the influence. I don't know how much you drank. At the bar."

Kat smacks herself internally.

Slowly, Patrick closes the car door. He rests his hand on the roof for a moment, looking back at Kat, who is biting her lip… well, nervously. And let's be honest, when was the last time Kat Stratford got nervous about anything? Something's up, he knows. But he's sure as hell not going to question it.

"You're right," he says, walking closer to her.

"I am?" Kat murmurs, then snaps herself out of it. "I mean, of course I am."

Suddenly, he is so close to her that she can smell every inch of him, every reason why she should have never left him behind, every excuse she shouldn't have uttered that night. Patrick reaches up and lightly touches her hair.

"In that case," he whispers softly, "come inside."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: One of my favorite chapters to write. Enjoy & please review! Thanks all for reading. :)_

* * *

Kat doesn't know what to expect when she walks in.

Would Patrick's apartment be a total pig stock? With leftover food lying on the sofa and dirty laundry spilling over the carpet and abominating untidiness all around because he didn't expect company? Or would he be the complete opposite? Would he the type of housekeeper who made sure everything was freakishly spotless, always in top-notch and pristine condition?

_Oh my god_, Kat thinks horrifically. _What if Patrick Verona owns cabinetry filled with fancy china? _

Then Kat realizes something. She finds herself questioning this for a valid, although not necessarily good, reason. The fact is that she doesn't know this Patrick Verona at all; the one who goes out late at night to some quarantined bar lounge to do god-knows-what, the one who has his own apartment and thrives in a city that's too big for him, the one who offers his ex-girlfriend a ride back and then welcomes her into his home, even after she'd torn his heart apart.

A lot can happen in six years. For all Kat knows, Patrick could be anything, anyone.

She shakes her head and follows Patrick inside, moving her thoughts to the back of her mind.

When Kat walks in, she is collided with the smell of pure hominess. It's not a pig stock, but it's not crystallized neatness either. It reminds her of her home back in Southern California, actually. The kitchen is tidy and modest, but it was clearly used often. The living room has a big, blue couch and a small TV set across. The washing machine is rumbling, and the scent of fabric softener seeps into the air. She could almost see her teenage self propped on the sofa, listening to NPR while doing homework.

Fortunately, there was no luxurious set of china.

"Nice place," Kat comments.

"Thanks. You want anything to drink?" Patrick asks, heading towards the kitchen. He quickly adds, "No more alcohol for you, though."

Kat grimaces. "Again, shut up."

She doesn't know why she feels comfortable bantering with him like this. It's always been like that. They could be immersed in a heated argument, and Kat would feel like it was more natural than if they were sitting down and talking about their day or feelings. It was paradoxical—Kat hated that they were not being able to talk about things easily, but she also loved that they could confide in each other in ways that were perhaps bigger than the words they spoke. Kat always liked the idea that she and Patrick had their own language, because somehow that made them different, special even. _It's like that song Mom used to sing in the shower_, Kat used to think, _You say it best, when you say nothing at all._

"You can take a seat anywhere," Patrick says, breaking her thoughts. She looks up alarmingly at him. "I mean, you don't have to stand up like that."

Kat looks down at herself and notices that she's standing right in the middle of his living room, clutching all her belongings like she's holding on for dear life. Slowly, she eases herself onto the couch behind her.

"So when did you say you moved here?"

"About four years ago," Patrick says, setting down two mugs of hot tea—_tea?_—on the coffee table and taking a seat beside Kat. "I'm actually rooming with Keith Winters. You remember Keith?"

Kat bursts into laughter. "_Sweet hydride_ Keith?"

"He's done with the cocaine. And the 'shrooms. And most of the weed," Patrick says, smiling along with her. "He's a lot better now, and sober seventy-five percent of the time."

"You don't say."

"Don't tell me you never experimented in college."

"I've gotten my fair share of sorry days in college when I've done something really stupid," Kat admits hesitantly, twirling her fingers together, "but recreational drugs never quite made the list."

When she looks up, she finds him staring intently at her. He's wearing that concerned expression he would occasionally slip on when she got depressed about a bad grade, or when she would show just one little indication of insecurity about herself, or when she used to talk about her mother.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Kat asks him, blinking.

"Kat."

He says her name like he's been waiting to say it for a long time. And suddenly, he no longer looks worried. No, his face is etched with something else, something Kat has seen drawn numerous times.

Before she can even register his motions, he leans forward, touches her face with his calloused fingers, and strokes the skin he knew every contour of. And just like that, they are kissing. It's gentle at first, lips moving softly and delicately across each other, but in an instant, their kisses grow hungry and ferocious. They are kissing the way they lived their story: like two people who have been separated for so long that they forgot how much they missed this, how much they still wanted this.

_Can I ask you a favor?_ Kat had whispered, the first time they made love. _Don't break my heart, okay?_

He broke his promise, that night on her front lawn, that night before she left for Brown, that night that constituted Kat's life spiraling out of her own grasp. And she's pretty sure he is breaking her heart right now, but maybe in a different way entirely.

Patrick curls his fingers in her hair as she wraps her arms around his neck. Carefully, he eases her down against the couch, and she pulls herself closer to him and wraps her legs around his waist. She doesn't know how long they are kissing like this, but she knows the last thing she wishes is for this to end. It isn't until Patrick moves his hand from her hair to the front zipper of her jeans does she come to her senses.

Kat's eyes fly open as she pushes herself away from Patrick. "Oh my god," she squeals, looking at him in horror. "Oh my god, oh my fucking god…"

"Kat," he says, as she stands up.

"No. Stop saying my name," she sputters incredulously, holding up a hand. "Did you… were you planning on… _beguiling_ me?"

"What? Of course not. Kat, just listen—"

"No, _you_ listen." She is shouting now, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "I wasn't trying to... I didn't come here to do…"

As her voice fades, and her eyes drop to the ground in frustration, Patrick adds sarcastically, "Wow, great explaining."

"We can't do this," Kat tells him gravely. "Not like this."

"Then how?" Patrick says, standing up. He says this calmly, like he isn't even fazed by her words. "Tell me how we can make this work."

"It's not that easy!" Kat thunders. "Do you think it was easy for me? Do you think I just picked myself up off the ground, went off to college, and that was that? God, Patrick. It wasn't a walk in the sunshine after I left, okay?"

"It wasn't a piece of cake for me either," Patrick seethes, his voice growing louder. "I don't know if you recall, but _you_ were the one who left _me_. _You_ were the one who said that things weren't going to work."

Kat opens her mouth—to protest, maybe—but her voice catches, and she feels herself about to cry. She wills herself to stay strong; she can't let him see her break down, be vulnerable, even if he has before. "I was young," she says softly, looking at the floor. "I was crazy in love, and I had a choice, but I didn't know what I wanted."

"What about now?" Patrick asks, his voice still splintering. "What do want _now_?"

_I want to successful at this new job opportunity I'm given. I want to see cities everywhere, and still strive in the new city I'm living in. I want to change the world. I want to be happy. _

Kat runs through all of them. But nothing felt more right than this: _I want you._

"You didn't come after me," she says instead, so quietly it is almost inaudible. But Patrick could hear it. He could hear every syllable, every breath. "After that night, you didn't come after me."

Patrick looks at her. She is standing a few feet away from the door, balancing her belongings in her arms, ready to bolt. "I didn't know you wanted me to," he replies softly.

"Yeah." She touches the doorknob. "Me neither."

She can barely hold herself together as she leaves Patrick's apartment. Slowly, she crumbles against the wall outside in the sleepy hallway. She presses her hands against her eyes, as if to stop the tears from tumbling over her fingers.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Kat lifts her head to see Keith Winters gawking at her from across the hallway. From the looks of it, he looks drunk out of his ass.

"Holy shit, it's Kat Stratford!" Keith exclaims amazedly, as Kat manages to roll her eyes. "What brings you to the best city this nation has to offer?"

Before Kat can respond or run off, her phone begins to vibrate. She can feel Keith's eyes on her as she digs through her bag to pull it out, but she does not tell him to get lost.

"Hello?" she says into the receiver.

Bianca's voice rings through, a violently scattered oral frenzy. "Oh my god, Kat. You have to fly back home right now. _Right now._ I've already booked a ticket for the 6am flight. If you leave now, you can make it."

"What? Wait, Bianca, what happened?"

There is dreadfully long pause, then Bianca's voice comes through, heartbreaking and heavy. "It's Dad."

Kat doesn't need to hear anymore. Quickly, she puts on a good face, hangs up with Bianca and heads down the hallway, checking MapQuest for the fastest way to get to JFK Airport.

Keith's voice echoes down the hallway. "Hey, Kat! Where you going?"

"Home," she says simply, without looking back.


	8. Chapter 8

Patrick throws his head back in frustration when Kat leaves his apartment. What the fuck just happened here? One minute, he and Kat were on the sofa, and he'd been exploding with passion and emotion he hadn't felt in years. And the next, she's gone, out the door with rage.

He storms into the kitchen in a fit and slams all the cabinets. He washes the dirty dishes in his sink, and breaks three plates. Then, when he is calm enough to think, he grabs a bottle of Mezzacorona from the liquor rack. As he pours the contents of his heart into a wine glass, Keith walks in clumsily. His eyes are peeled, his legs are wobbly, and he's already murmuring to himself—a sure sign that he is completely hammered.

"Dude," Keith slurs, holding up a hand, "tell me I'm not dreaming. I just saw Kat Stratford down the hall."

Patrick takes a swig of his drink. "Yeah," he murmurs, twirling the glass in his hand, "she was here."

"Pfffffftttt," Keith sputters, outraged. "Don't I know. Bet you don't know she's back to California tomorrow… always running away, that girl. I don't know why you keep hoping she'll stick around, Pat. Honestly."

"What?" Patrick says, not sure if he's hearing Keith's words accurately. "What are you talking about?"

"Yeah, man, she was down the hall. I was talking to her, you know? And then she gets this phone call. And she's just freaking the hell out."

"She's going back to Cali…" Patrick leans his body against the counter table, unable to stand or see straight. "Is she coming back?"

Keith shrugs, his shoulders slugging. "Dude, stop talking to loud… Man, I can hear you from all the way over here…"

"Keith," Patrick says, stepping forward and grabbing his best friend's shoulders. "Tell me where Kat is going. Is she leaving tonight? How long will she be there? God, this can't be happening."

"She said—" Keith points a finger to the ceiling and sticks out his tongue. "—she's going home. She said she's going home and you fucked up big time."

Patrick starts to panic. He can't help it. "What should I do?" he asks, to nobody in particular.

"Go after her," Keith says, patting Patrick on the back. "Go after her and win her back. Whaddaya gotta lose…"

Keith's voice is faint as he steps back and pukes all over the kitchen tiles. Clearly, Keith is in no stable condition to give advice, but still, Patrick finds himself reaching for his jacket.

"Whaddaya gotta lose. Whaddaya gotta lose …"

_Everything_, Patrick thinks, as Keith continues this mantra.

The next available flight to San Diego is at 10AM. He leaves the apartment with his heart stuck in his head, as he is about to do what he should have done a long time ago.

* * *

It took a while for Patrick to realize that Kat wasn't unbroken.

Sure, he knew she had a soft spot for him, and he used that fact unforgivably to his advantage. But Kat had always remained this figure of unbelievable strength and trenchant wit and beautiful fortitude—for anyone. Often times, Patrick convinced himself that she was stronger than he'd ever be. And to this day, that still isn't untrue.

So the very first time Kat broke in front of him, it scared Patrick to pieces. It had been a few days after their infamous breakup, when she nearly shipped herself off to Nepal for three months, before her father had walked in on them, before they had even slept together. She was talking about some guy, some Josh guy, back in Ohio, who'd depravedly ripped her heart out. He'd watched her cry in front of him, crumble to the ground, and open herself to a condition of complete emotional exposure.

It wasn't just that he'd never seen Kat be completely vulnerable to him—it was that he realized that whenever she felt pain, he hurt too. So he wrapped his arms around her shivering body, cradled her like a child, and murmured her name. Somehow, this was enough for the crying to stop. Somehow, his hands, his words, his _presence_, had been enough for her to tilt her head upward and press her mouth to his. Somehow, he had the ability to make her better again, to heal her.

And for moments at a time, Patrick didn't believe he deserved this, didn't believe he deserved _her_. So now, as he runs faster through the concourse, he wants to prove to her father, prove to himself—prove to the only girl that ever mattered to him—that all this time, he did.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Hi all! My earnest apologies for being so delayed with this update! I've just recently transplanted to Philly for yet another semester of college and have been swamped with schoolwork & moving in & such. Sooo updates may be a bit slow for a while, but I fully intend to finish this story, so please stay tuned. Also, a huge THANK YOU to all readers, followers, and reviewers! You guys are the best._

_Anyway, enjoy! And share your thoughts! :)_

* * *

In the cluster of travelers, Kat weaves through to find her sister.

The environment she's immersed in reminds her so much of her last year in college, when she had the opportunity to explore Tokyo and Istanbul and Belgium for sixteenth months on a special study abroad program. Throughout that time, she'd gotten accustomed to always moving, always running, that at one point, she noticed that she didn't have a home, not exactly. At first, she couldn't care less. Home was where the heart was, and her heart belonged to making a difference in the world. She was sure of it. But as time passed, Kat got lost in all the traveling. And sooner than later, Kat realized she didn't really know where her heart was.

Her reminiscing thoughts are interrupted as she spots Bianca in the crowd. Bianca is standing by the doorway on her tip-toes, her blonde hair mashed on top of her head in a messy bun. Kat feels those betraying tears in her eyes as she loops through the cloud of busy people and rolling suitcases to embrace her younger sister.

"Come on," Bianca says, returning Kat's hug with just as much strength while still pulling her sister forward. "Cameron is outside waiting. He can drop us off at the hospital."

Kat nods, following her sister out to door. She recognizes the small Prius parked around the corner of the airport, and a tall handsome Cameron in the driver's seat.

"Hi Kat," he greets cordially, as Kat climbs into the backseat.

"Hey Cameron, how've you been?"

"Wonderful now that Kat Stratford is back in town."

"You always were the charmer."

"Why thank you."

Bianca stifles a giggle in the passenger seat as Cameron puts the car in drive. Kat and Cameron had always gotten along—and Bianca was lucky that it rubbed off on their father a little bit too.

Cameron merges onto the highway as the silence bores into Kat's mind. "So, what happened?" Kat asks, clearing her throat.

Bianca doesn't pretend not to know what Kat is talking about. "Dad was in a car accident driving home from the grocery store," Bianca says. "He broke a few ribs and his arm… but the doctor says considering how smashed the car was, Dad was pretty lucky he didn't end up the same way. He's going to stay at the hospital for a few days, but he'll be just fine."

Kat lets out the breath of relief she didn't know she was holding. "Thank god," she whispers, mostly to herself.

"I called you right after it happened," Bianca explains softly. "I didn't know how severe the accident would be. And I just…I knew I'd need you here."

Kat feels the lump in her throat, but she pushes back. Even with her own emotions, she has to win the fight.

When the three of them enter Walter's room at hospital, Kat braces herself for the worst. But when she walks in, her father is laughing on the bed, his face smiley against the pale boringness of the room. Darlene is next to him, and she is clutching his hand as he lets out a loud guffaw that echoes in the room. There's a cast on her father's arm, and he's in patient clothes, but nothing else indicated any severe injuries.

Kat widens her eyes in disbelief. "Dad?"

Both Walter and Darlene turn their heads. Walter's eyes light up at the sight of his eldest daughter.

"You don't look like someone with broken bones," Kat says, before her father can open his mouth. She rushes over to the bed immediately, throwing her arms around her crippled father—gently, as not to hurt him. She can feel Walter startle underneath her, but it doesn't take him long to recover. "I was so worried," Kat says breathlessly, looking at her father.

Walter can't hide his amusement the same way Kat cannot hide her smirk. "Now you know how it feels."

"I knew he'd say that…" Cameron murmurs thoughtfully from the corner of the room. Bianca elbows him gracelessly in the gut, as Kat unleashes herself from her father's arms. They exchange a heady glance—one that said just about everything they needed to say.

After much insistence—from the doctor, Walter, and Darlene—that Kat's help was not needed anymore (even if, she thinks irritably, she came all this way), Bianca and Kat head back to the house they grew up in.

"Cameron's not coming?" Kat asks curiously as Cameron departs suspiciously from the two sisters.

"No," Bianca says, as they climb into the Prius. "He has to head to the school."

After college, when Bianca landed her spot at Chanel and started traveling around Europe, Cameron got a job as a private accountant for a local grocery store. When he found out that wasn't quite the path for him, he went back to school to get a degree in student counseling. Now, he's one of the most respected guidance counselors at Padua High. Or so Bianca says.

Five seconds into silence, Bianca peels her eyes off the road and asks her older sister pointedly, "All right, Kat, spit it out. You haven't been yourself since you got back."

"You can't be exactly yippy giddy after flying eight hours to see your father in the aftermath of a car accident, Bianca."

"I realize that," she says defensively, her voice similar to that of when Kat used to criticize her for caring so much about what high school nimrods thought of her. "But it's something else. I know you, Kat. What's going on? You can tell me."

Kat has held it together on the taxi ride from Patrick's apartment to the airport. She has kept her emotions in check for the long hours she spent on the plane, only allowing herself to think of her father. She has left behind all—okay, _most_—thoughts of him behind when she arrives at the place where those feelings first began.

But now, as she looks up at the eyes of her sister—the one who differed so much from her, the who didn't seem to see the world like she did, the one who is here now to say,_ I understand_—and suddenly, the words are pouring out of Kat's mouth like bulleting rain. Fast and furious and full of disorienting meaning.

When she is out of words—unknown truths and half-hearted excuses and frantic explanations—she waits for her sister's response. Bianca's eyes are hard-edged, on the road, as she says, "I don't see the problem."

Kat blinks, disbelieving her ears. "Were you not listening to a word I was saying?"

"Oh, I was listening," Bianca insists, making a left to their community. She hastily puts the car in park in front of the house. "Look, Kat. I know it's been six years. I know he's hurt you. But God, you could have run into anyone in the biggest city in this country, at some retro bar downtown. But you ran into _him_. Doesn't that mean something? That's, like, fate!"

"Oh my god," Kat says, rolling her eyes, "are you seriously still stuck in your fairytale? My life's not like yours, Bianca. I won't find Prince Charming and get married and live in a picket-fenced house or drive a white horse Prius! He walked away from me. It's not like we can just pick it up where we left off—which was, may I remind you, screaming at each other on this very lawn!"

Bianca regards her sister calmly. How could Kat still be so blind, after all these years? "I realized Cameron was who I wanted to be with because I knew I wasn't happy with anyone else. You and Patrick had something special—you still do, by the looks of it. Maybe you can't pick up where you left off, but it's not too late to start over."

"It's not that easy."

"It's not supposed to be," Bianca says softly. "Look, all I'm saying is, you found each other. Don't walk away again."

Kat is quiet, and as Bianca twists the engine off, the silence is suddenly excruciating—cutting through Kat's emotions like a knife.

It used to scare her to know that someone knew her the way he did.

He knew every curve of her body and the feel of her lips when he kissed her goodnight. He knew that her tickle spot is right at the middle of her feet, and that the pattern of tiny birthmarks on her left shoulder shaped exactly like the Orion constellation. He knew that she slept with her limbs curled, her hand on her heart, for the many times he had tried to envelope her.

But it had been the little, subtle things that scared the shit out of her; the ones she didn't even notice about herself. Like when he knew exactly what to say during an argument to truly set her off. Or when she'd hear his motorcycle gunning outside her window, at the exact moments she so desperately wanted to escape. Or when, after they made love, he'd squeeze her hand tight—a reaffirmation that he wouldn't be leaving, because he knew that was exactly what she feared.

Now, she realizes, these things are what she longs for the most.


	10. Chapter 10

Patrick has not been back to California in almost four years.

At first, it was because he'd spent all his savings on rent, and couldn't exactly afford a plane ticket across the country. Then, it was because he didn't really have any reason to go back. His mother was busy with his jackass stepdad, so family was a nonexistent issue. And well, whenever Patrick stepped foot into that town, it would bleed with memories of Kat. And he didn't need any of those around.

Now, it's a different case. When Patrick's flight lands, he isn't sure what his next move is. He had run lines through his head the whole plane ride here, convinced that he'd mustered up just the right words, but now that he is walking the way back to her, the only thing he's convinced of is that he's completely lost his mind.

As he makes his way to the familiar parts of town, by foot, he stumbles across a building he swore he'd never return back to. Patrick shakes his head, almost laughing at the fact that he is standing three feet away from a monument that held paradoxically nothing and everything for him.

He doesn't know why, and he doesn't want to know, but somehow he finds himself walking towards the front entrance of the school. The hallways are vacant, school is long out by now, and Patrick keeps walking in further. He scuttles his feet across the linoleum floors, and smiles as he remembers tugging Kat down this hallway, as they tried to make their escape out of the school after sneaking her in to take an English test. He passes by the fire exit and counts the steps up to the roof, where they had shared their first kiss. He gazes down at the dim courtyard, at the sunset slowly simmering against the horizon, and he thinks of how it all began—even more so, how it should have ended differently.

"Patrick Verona?"

Patrick is startled by the sound of his name. But as he turns around, he is even more surprised at the gentleman who uttered it. "_Spoink?_" he declares, unable to fully contain the smirk on his face. "Dude, no way. What are you doing here?"

"I work here," Cameron responds, disapproving the long lost nickname with his acidy tone. "I could ask you the same question. I never thought I'd see Patrick Verona in these halls again."

"You and I both."

"Let me guess," Cameron says matter-of-factly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He looks grown up, Patrick notices impressively. "You're here because of one of the Stratford sisters. And _not_ the one I'm married to. Who will no longer be a Stratford, actually, I guess..."

Patrick shoots him a wry look. Cameron may look older, but Patrick sure as hell wouldn't stop teasing him the way he did when they were in high school. "I think you're getting ahead of yourself there. You're _engaged_, not married."

"Aha! You have been keeping tabs, haven't you?"

"On you? Nah, I have a life, you know."

"You're doing what most psychologists would call dodging the issue."

"That's fascinating. Your point?"

"Come on," Cameron says, grabbing Patrick's arm. "I'll give you a ride there."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll give you a ride home," Cameron clarifies, his eyes reflecting with that glimmer of innocent hope that Patrick had always secretly admired.

Patrick clears his throat awkwardly. "I'm not going home—"

"Yes," Cameron interrupts, pushing Patrick forward. "You are."

* * *

Kat emerges out of the shower, steam trailing behind her like a moss of recollections. A forsaking waft of coldness immediately cradles her, so she reaches for a pink furry robe—that clearly belonged to Bianca—and pulls it over herself. She thinks she looks absolutely ridiculous, with her long hair sopping over her shoulders, and her eyes plausibly tired, and her body comforted in a color that doesn't quite suit her.

Kat feels like she has been fighting for a long time; a sword and shield with her own thoughts. But right now, she neither has the energy nor the will to keep battling.

Sitting in her teenage room makes Kat feel like she has never left. Her father would be the last person on earth to start renovating, so everything—even the small comb Kat remembers placing at the center of her night table and the stack of journals hidden neatly at the corner of her closet and the photos of her mother scattered on the cobalt accent wall—looks as though they have never moved.

_Crack. _

At the suddenly sharp sound, Kat jumps and turns to her window. At first, she doesn't see anything—or anyone—except maple branches and browning grass and the darkness dimming over the day. But then, in quick motions, a figure casts himself between the hands of the trees. Panicking, Kat grabs the taser from her purse and holds it firm in her hand as she makes her way towards the window. But when she gets close enough, she is able to make out the intruder's face, which looks clearer than anything else surrounding her.

Automatically, she drops her weapon, lowers her defenses, and forfeits from the battle.

_I won't. Not this time. _

She opens the window further and beckons him inside.


	11. Chapter 11

"That's a good look for you."

That's the first thing he says when he steps inside the room and takes in Kat's wardrobe—or the lack of it, rather.

"It's Bianca's," she says softly, glancing down at the hot pink robe. She looks at him, at the web of dark hair on his head, at his arms and chest that fit so casually under a t-shirt and leather jacket, at the hesitancy of his looming eyes and the wobbling of his feet. He's nervous, she notices.

She speaks first. "Patrick. What are you doing here?"

He steps closer to her and runs his fingers through the tufts of his hair. It takes him several moments to mesh the words in his head, but before he can even begin utter what he wants to say, Kat's voice vibrates through his ears.

"I'm sorry."

She blurts this without even thinking. And then, mostly because she is much too impatient to hold it in any longer, she starts rambling.

"I mean, I know this may not mean much now, and maybe I should have said this to you a _long_ time ago. Specifically, six years ago. But I'm sorry, okay? Patrick, I'm sorry for everything I said to you last night, and everything I said to you that night on my lawn—"

Patrick attempts to interject. "Kat—"

"I was just scared, you know?" Kat continues dramatically. "I don't like to admit it, and trust me, you probably know that best. And maybe this sounds totally cliché, or foolishly sentimental, or completely bat-shit crazy, but it's true—"

"Kat, stop. You don't have to do this. It's okay—"

"It's not," she argues, her voice softening. She stops talking long enough to notice that he is walking closer and closer to her. "I shouldn't have… I should have held on to us, you know? I should have tried harder…" she finishes, her voice trailing.

Patrick closes the space between them and reaches out to grasp both of Kat's hands. She looks up at him, and this time—_this time_, she promises herself that she won't look away. "I won't," Patrick says, and for a second, she suspects he can read her thoughts. But it wouldn't have been the first time.

Kat looks up, almost bemused. "What?"

Patrick doesn't answer right away, which makes Kat release a huff of impatience.

"Patrick," she urges. "You won't what?"

His face is so close to hers that she can feel his warm breath against her skin. "Let go," he whispers.

Then, he leans in to kiss her.

Patrick does not know how it's possible to find someone you aren't looking for. But then he realizes that that's not really the case here. He had been looking for Kat, all this time, everywhere. He looked for her in the face of crowds, walking down 14th Street. He looked for her in every girl he ever brought home. He looked for her in his decision to go back to school, to become a teacher, to make his life mean something.

They are kissing softly at first; gentle pecks and delicate brushes against the mouth. But then it grows fiery in a near instant, like the initial spark of a candle—a wick tumbling down its solitary course. Kat has her arms around Patrick's neck, and his muscular limbs surround her waist, as they both grab and pull and fight to be as close to each other as possible. He eases her down against the bed, and makes a pathway of kisses across her neck, on the tips of her breasts, cascades her belly, and further down. She explores him like the first time, and she remembers every nook and cranny as she runs her hands across the coarse patches across his chest, the smooth bunches the curls on his head, the smile creases at the corners of his eyes. They are nipping at bare skin and tugging off clothes; tousling bodies of paint rolling on a canvas of redemptive and explosive colors.

And as he pulls himself into her, she holds him closer. She isn't afraid that he'll slip away. She isn't wary of opportunities missed. It's quite the opposite, actually. This time, she isn't afraid to admit that she needs him. She isn't hesitant to say that she missed him, that she regretted six years of silence, that she never stopped thinking about him, even when they were a thousand miles apart. She isn't scared to declare that _this_ is what she wants, now and for as long as possible.

"So what happens now?" Kat whispers afterwards. They are lying against the pillows, looking at each other from the ends of her bed.

Patrick reaches out and takes her hand. He squeezes it hard. "Now, we sleep," he replies softly.

Kat smiles and tilts her head up to kiss him. She tucks her head against his rising chest, and he wraps his arm around her body, as they both fall fast into a deep, atoning slumber.

* * *

_A/N: I've always loved the idea that Bianca and Cameron—two people completely opposite of them, two people who strongly believe in and have found love—would somehow be partially responsible for bringing Kat and Patrick together. I brought Kat and Patrick back to California for selfish reasons—and that is, I wanted to incorporate all the 10 things characters that I love so much into this fanfic. But I also wanted Kat and Patrick to end where they began (or rather, have a different ending than the last), and perhaps even more so, I think every character plays a huge role in bringing these two non-believers their happy ending._

_There will be one more chapter left of this fanfic. It's going to be a short one, just wrapping things up. I've had a blast writing it, and it's been such an honor to be able to receive such wonderful feedback._

_Thank you, always, for reading!_

_P.S. I'm considering writing another 10 Things fanfic on what "would have been Season 2." I've been finagling with this idea for a while, but wasn't sure if I could commit to what would be a longer and more elaborate story, but I will probably give it a try. So keep on the lookout, if you're interested!_


End file.
